


red are the lines i lay upon the ground (floor 3: dust gathers in the wake)

by Lexis_Cheshire



Series: red shot through building blocks(floor 3: those who we've forgotten) [1]
Category: Hermitcraft RPF, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, MindCrack RPF, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (There are graphic descriptions of violence; please be careful if you are sensitive to gore!), :D, AU of an AU, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Blood and Violence, Minor Character Death, but if they do i will absolutely take this down, everyone's writing about this au is fantastic, first longer fic!, gestures at my wall detailing the relationships between districts and old tribute/victor customs, personas only, symbolism literally everywhere this took over a month ;-;, the whole nHo will be involved, there will be more to come, this is so far from all of the things i'm spinning off of, to my knowledge none of these creators have expressed a dislike of being portrayed in this way, you have no idea how much lore I have. the worldbuilding alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexis_Cheshire/pseuds/Lexis_Cheshire
Summary: a boy is killed, consumed by the bloodlust of the Games. his name is lost in the ash of the Arena and the breath of the dead.a machine dies, jammed with silence and blood, gathering dust in its gears. EthosLab runs in loops, moving to the Capitol tune, muted puppet for their deadly pageantry.he lives, frozen, in the wreckage of the aftermath. Etho rebuilds in the shadow of skyscrapers, dragging three fingers across the screens.and time marches on.Congratulations to 'EthosLab' — Victor of the 30th Annual Hunger Games!
Series: red shot through building blocks(floor 3: those who we've forgotten) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773826
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	red are the lines i lay upon the ground (floor 3: dust gathers in the wake)

**Author's Note:**

> While this fic was inspired by WreakingHavok's fantastic Hunger Games/Lunch Club fic(which is just wonderful, and everyone's fics spinning off of it have been amazing as well!!) it is a most definite non-canon fic. i'm not affiliated with the victor's tower/floor six/etcetera.
> 
> Some of the traditions and other things are headcanons of my own—I'm using a more "minecraft"-like world setting; I refer to engineering and tech when I say "redstone", and redstone itself is an electrical conductor. I also use the concepts of enchanting and so on. I incorporated a few of the minecraft animals, basically mixing minecraft with the real world and hunger games! It's kind of a mess, really.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it anyway! This is my first try at writing a long fic like this, so please tell me if you have any constructive criticism! (And please, read the tags first!! This fic has graphic violence and death in it, I would not recommend if you dislike or are sensitive to that!)

he stood in his row in front of the stage. the silence hung heavy in the air, pressing down on his shoulders, his yearmates fidgeting restlessly next to him. the click of metal reached his ears. he stared at the glass Reaping orbs on the stage, the gold-silver-glitter of the escort vivid in its dramatic movements. he had only one slip, one tiny scrap of paper reading his name. one among the hundreds. the chances were so, so low. surely...surely.

he tuned out the childishly-accented speech of the gaudy Capitol creature perched on the ballot stand, scattering crescents of pale gold light with each toss of it's ornamented hair. the clouded morninglight bounced off the intricately painted locks, dancing against the walls of the square.

one hand reached into the first bowl.

the escort cheered as the female tribute crossed the dais, loud atop the platform as the crowd hushed in premature wake.

golden nails, sharpened into elaborately styled points, caressed the second, swirling the papers inside with glitter-clawed digits.

he dared not blink. his eyes stung as it drew out one folded piece of paper, smudged with a fingerprint of redstone. the one he'd left on his ballot slip.

and his world froze.

" _and the male tribute is..._ "

his name rang out.

* * *

and time started again, as if someone had set the video to twice the speed. suddenly he stood on stage with his wrist in the grip of the Capitol escort, who beamed with teeth filed in points and a mockery of machinery decorating its face. its eyes shone like gilded silver, face luminous as the light-bright screens, and it stared him down with sheer elation in its eyes.

it waved to the resolute soundlessness of the crowd. " _may the odds be ever in your_ _favor_ ," it declared in a joyful shriek. he watched his mentors ground red dust into the pavement as the escort pulled him off the stage, bile burning up his esophagus.

it gave him another mirth-filled grin and granted him an hour to say his goodbyes, gifted him with a guard who's steps landed hard and who's glare pricked at him through its helmet. he met its gaze and turned to flee.

* * *

(he had no family to see before he went. he had always been alone, even amongst his work-brothers. he had no blood kin, no familial mentors to call his own, those who'd created him gone not a few days after his introduction to the world. a freak electrical accident; the redstone core of the assembly hall malfunctioning unexpectedly. nevermind that the power system was a work of geniuses, that it had never so much as flickered a light in years _—_ nevermind, that he didn't know their names, their legacy, that the one time he asked the Peacekeeper had-

had-

( _he was screaming before he processed the pain. **agony, AGONY** , watching his own body thrash on the floor, fireworks under his skin, **why why WHY** , __blue-white brilliance blinding his sight-_ )

he wrapped fabric over his mouth, over the branching fractals that spilled over his chin down to his collarbone, lighting-struck the way only Peacekeeper tasers left. he never raised his voice again. he didn't know if he could.

no matter, it was, no matter, that he had been watched, always, white uniforms with hands on the trigger and eyes that grew sharp and narrow behind the visor when he stepped into the lab; when he built harmless toys to give to children and re-engineered tech by his own design.

( _when he fell into the relief of metal and redstone deep enough to almost forget their presence, and afterwards they seized his work and tore it apart again with glee. and he fought his **rage** until it no longer showed his face, swallowed the bitterness pooling under his tongue, and built his resistance in model birds with black and white plumage and a song._)

no matter, and he caught the eye of a yearmate with skin tinged green, hissing quiet hate at ironclad forms, and pressed monochrome feathers into his hand.)

* * *

he took to the maze of passageways in the factory, a silent flight through rows of unused storage _—_ greeting his white-furred friend, hidden within the walls of a near-unvisited backroom. he'd found them in the obsolete paper archives and fed it what rations he could spare, extras gained and given grudgingly to him for his work.

he crafted a pendant for them, something uniquely his, and crowned them with bright collar, icy to match their eyes. he named them Taxes, taken from the papers they'd nested in, and learned it's meaning. _(it rang far truer to the work they toiled at every day, never enough for the ever-reaching hands of the Capitol, always demanding more in uneven exchange for the protection Peacekeepers supposedly gave._ )

they'd die, he knew, once he was gone, and he held them close before he left. he took his token from them, the pentagon of the charm warm in his hand, and gathered the scant personal belongings on his shelves, innocuous machines and rough clothes haphazard in the bag.

he ran through his home for the last time, hiding his secrets in places he knew Peacekeepers wouldn't find and workers would _—_ sleek songbirds and half-built inventions tucked into the hollow stones of alleyways, twined into the sparse, wiry vines. he'd never let the Capitol take the things he had poured his heart into, never let them take it and consume it and use it against those forced into those false-hallowed towers the next year.

he caught green-tinted shoulders and spoke the fire of rebellion, told keycodes that'd lead him to the gifts obscured from view, pulled them to the first site of many with the promise to carry on.

the Peacekeeper rounded the corner and corraled him away, sneer visible through the headpiece. dark eyes met his and he waved three fingers behind his back before he was blocked from view, armored grip vicelike on his arm. he marched back through the streets to the station, ostentatious marble thing so dissonant from the clean lines of the district.

he stepped onto the train backwards and forced the water from his eyes as the stark, soothing towers of his home slid away.

* * *

( _the maglev was unnaturally smooth, top-of-the-line engineering making no sound as it slid out of the station. he had thought they weren't moving at all until he looked out the window, watched as the rail accelerated in seconds, scenery whipping past at dizzying speeds._

_the train car bordered on stifling in its opulence, pressing in on all sides with velvet-covered walls. the seats were populated with overstuffed and tasseled pillows, and when he sat he sank half a foot through the cushions._

_he escaped to the bathroom, to polished white tile and clean lines, pressed his hands into his eyes and almost could pretend to believe he was home. the mentor knocked at the door. he didn't answer._

_he wondered of the other tribute—he hadn't even heard their name, consumed as he was in shock. they didn't bother to visit. he was glad for it._ )

* * *

the Capitol is artificial, slick and sugary and candy-colored, plastic in a way District 3 never was. the citizens chatter in their saccharine, childish mannerisms, decked in extreme modifications that render them overly-bright and uncannily doll-like. It's sickening how eager they are to tear their bodies apart and burn them into something else, legs as spindly as spiders and double-jointed arms. he watches one of them swivel their head all the way around and shudders.

the stylist scrubs the rough from his hands and the dust from his skin until he becomes a nearly-blank canvas, marred only by lightning whorls, the warning woven into his voice. they swap his scarf for a mask as fragile as glass, softer than silk and useless as protection. ( _he misses the brush of snowy fur._ ) he stands next to a stranger in a chariot ablaze with light and waves to the mass of monsters they are paraded past, trapped in a facade of.

he sees the other tributes, sees the way twelve's collarbones hollow below the ash of their costume, and when he chooses his name, it is this: EthosLab, to remind himself of feathers when the Peacekeepers grip eight's shoulder and their eyes flare with terror, of black-and-white when he sees eleven physically freeze when he brushes their arm. an immortalized ( _remember, remember before he can't_ ) snapshot of his home, of the delight of sparking creation and timeless nights filled with gentle noteblock tune.

He finds familiarity in the screens of the training halls and loses hours to poisons and pitfalls and intricate knots. he burns his hands on hemp instead of braided wire and breaks a tablet to watch the sparks. he maintains himself, turns black and blue with deadly focus, re-learns the work that had been stripped from his flesh. he memorizes, and he adapts, and never once does he falter. ( _if he stops, he'll never start again_ ).

* * *

the stare of camera lens follow his every move, microphones embedded into any surface possible. the glare of Capitol screens burn on his face and he steels himself, determined not to show any weakness. the Gamemasters carelessly feast on gleaming gold-plated apples behind the glass and he hits the bull-eye twice, thrice, four, five, six times, glaring at the untouchable shadowed figures.

he wields his shields through silence and speaks measured words, lined with laughter that'd never passed his lips genuinely. armed with gift-wrapped phrases and polished anecdotes, he walks onto the stage for the second time.

the interviewer is a winner in his lifetime, a Victor dressed as extravagantly as any Capitol citizen, hands constantly in motion with gestures that seem just slightly more purposeful than not. a Victor, who looks at him with a searing smile and gemstone-cerulean eyes weighed with weariness beyond measure, and all he can do is stare at coal made diamonds and bare his teeth in turn.

( _the Victor is gone the next year. vanished. not a whisper of his presence remains, erased from the slate of awareness._ )

he watches his companions-in-death crumple behind the stage, drum dents into their arms, blink at the lights, trace unseeable patterns into their blank clothes. he sees and his fingers twitch in return, longing for the press of keys and the trace of red under his nails.

( _his wish is granted. he'll never be able to unsee it._ )

their silent cacophony threads through the building, a song of alien and excruciatingly familiar lament. he steps into the Arena with naught a whisper of complaint, ringed by fear on twenty-three sides. his steps ring silent in the noise of the fight and no one sees when he falls, and tumbles, and cracks...

* * *

_(_ _seven clawed at his face bare-handed, digging fingers into his eye. the sound that tore from his mouth was not a scream. air escaped from his lungs as blood waterfalled down his face, a gaping hole of **pain pain pain pAIN-**_

_he shoved back the agonizing feeling, mouth open in silent scream. he clutched his daggers and leapt forward, swiping haphazardly, forcing them back, back, back-_

_their foot caught on the tripwire. steel whistled through the air.)_

* * *

...but does not break. never, never, a heart of red-dyed stone and sand-shard snarl, sharpened with silence and the slice of metal through air. he becomes the machines he built from sweat and tears and bleeds waterfalls, mauled to match the glimmering lines of dust he laid so painstakingly before. he rigs quick ends out of the bombs they had caged him in and cuts his teeth on the desperation of survival.

and in his darkest hour he speaks quiet, eulogies of ones and zeros writ from the life dripping from his veins. he mourns for those who he'll never know, those who will be lost to the decay of forgotten archives, and emerges from the bloodbath choking on blood and sorrow, tongue heavy with the promises of the dead.

* * *

( _he shook, shot through with adrenaline, slumped against the gleaming edges of the massive cornucopia. gold had never looked less beautiful than in the form of the gleaming monstrosity, this waste of a monument built to honor death. how many had died for the promise of an ultimate prize, for victory in a game of survival? how many had killed for the sake of living?_

_he was soaked in red, head to toe—the hollow of his face, the stains on the uniform, raw lines left by braided metal—the familiar dust that had made its home again in the grooves of his skin. his hands were ripped open, deep enough in parts to see ivory white. his throat burned, remnants of faux-acid, a memory of the brew that had eaten the flesh of his friend from within._

_he raised his head to the wind of the approaching hovercraft._

_jagged glass spilled out around him in a false halo. snapped arrows, cracked swords, enchanted daggers of all shapes and sizes—physical markers of the last challenge; a wall that had slowly closed on the remaining survivors, drove them to the center of the Arena, into_ _the sickenly confusing looking-glass catacombs buried inside the golden mausoleum. made to hunt each other even as their eyes deceived them, haunting apparitions that lurked beneath the shining surfaces._

 _trapped in the mind-bending mirror maze, he limped through the frost-filled reflective outcrops as he struggled to comprehend what his eyes were seeing. he traversed for days,_ _days of being unable to trust his own sight, illusions of decaying corpses and terrifyingly warped muttations dogging his heels, unsure if the next step would be his last._

_(nine lunged at him across a blank expanse only to pitch forward and vanish into the floor)._

_days of watching mercury-eyed mirages of himself screaming as he never could, fanged grins and independently moving reflections plastering themselves across his vision. days of hallucinatory fog, echoing the screams of the fallen and dark shadows that skittered behind his back. timeless days, each hour a new layer of hell, that had melted into one indistinguishable mass of **fear, danger, let me OUT-**_

_daylight brought relief stronger than he had ever felt, warmth after the slowly freezing tomb that had claimed all the tributes left—except two. two left at the end, a showdown neither wanted to take part in, mired in fatigue. but the Capitol sought death and the Capitol recieved, the Gamemasters playing one last trick—two potions, identical in every way._

_one, strength._

_the other, poison._

_an hour to activate._

_they tipped their bottles together and drank, a toast to all their lives and trials._ _h_ _e learned of old friends, the truth behind the violet of their eyes, and their true name. and they learned of snow-pelted ocelots, the hand behind lightning scars, and his true name._

 _they whispered secrets, his in hidden gestures pressed to the other's back, theirs in the pattern of their tapping feet, teaching each other where drones couldn't see. the sands of time fell_ _as they formed the fragile camaraderie of death row denizens, as they found the kindred spirits of those who's names had tolled from the joyful mouths of escorts._

_and he had felt the elixir, one that had lit like fire once the hour had passed, scorched energy down his throat through his limbs, that had gifted him with the strength to fight with the viciousness he'd never be able to speak._

_and he had seen the toxins, those that stained five's skin a sickening green, exhaustion forgotten, as their tears dripped crimson. who'd coughed up their life and felt themselves burn from the inside out, writhed in ( ** ~~agony~~** ) until he remembered mercy in a loaded crossbow._)

* * *

he wakes again in blinding light and almost believes he's home again.

* * *

he's scarred. he's a map of cuts and grazes, sheaves of missing skin and holes of puncture wounds. they've scoured all grime and dirt and dust from his body, but even the smallest of cuts remain, his hands a patchwork of pockmarked skin and discoloration. its almost normal, a pain-filled record of his memories. the imprints of injuries and actions that he'd taken through the Arena, forever cut into his skin. he runs his hand over his face and his eye feels-

normal. warped, but there, and human, even. a near-unheard of concession for the Capitol, whose citizens have reveled in the novelty of prosthetics and mechanical features in years past. he's seen Victors with faces mangled beyond recognition, who's limbs flexed through pistons, skin jointed and gleaming metallic at the slightest light. ( _they are called beasts, labeled monsters, and he is unfathomably lucky not to stand among their ranks._ )

* * *

he is led to a room he recognizes, a copy of the dressing room he had started in. there, they had dressed him in a contraption of electricity and glass, a pale mimicry of real technology. now, they build his brand from the blood on his hands.

the stylists file in and flutter around him like strange birds, picking at the racks of fabric crammed into the room. they drape jewel-toned cloth over his shoulders, pull at an oddly-cut vest and cover half of it with a jacket covered in too many pockets to count. there is an undertone of anxiety under the quiet chatter, nervous energy running through the room.

when he lifts his head they startle in poorly-disguised fear, hesitant to take more than glances at his face. they avert their own heads, refusing to meet his sight. he asks them what's wrong but they only shake their heads, questions met with silence as they speed up in their preparations.

panic rises at the abrupt muteness. they hurridly attach trinkets to his outfit and ears, clothing his palms in useless, unprotective gloves with the fingers removed. his mask lays forgotten on a side table, and he motions to grab it as one drags a mirror towards him. he looks up and-

he stares at himself. they'd covered nearly every inch of skin, a strange half-symmetrical outfit that looks far too dark for the usual glare of the Capitol. he pulls back the sleeve to check if—yes, always. no fabric will erase the history from his flesh. old lightning curls around his mouth and up to his cheek-

except-

of course, the Capitol would never be so kind.

they've replaced his eye with something unnatural, so red it barely looks real. it's horrifying, a pupilless evil eye that looks anomalous in the old wounds of his face. the sclera is gleaming tar, the iris a glowing ember. the skin around it is spiderwebbed with vivid veins, stretching over the mountainous terrain. it meshes with lightning seamlessly, as if it was made to do so.

( _and why wouldn't it be?_ )

he looks back at the head designer, and the flinch they make when he meets their eyes feels like a punch. he snatches his mask and flees. 

* * *

they didn't drag him back to slather him in paint and glitter. no need to, no point in replacing his face with Capitol magic, not when his own would do the trick.

the only part of him visible—his eyes, his fingers—are damaged, disfigured, topped with a gaze that sparks fear at every glimpse of it. shock-white hair sweeps low over the headband, nearly as bright as the photons of diodes. He looks in the mirror and sees a stranger glaring back at him, gaze piercing through his heart, and he snaps his head away. his laugh is more sob than sound.

he can't see anything under the patterns the Arena have gouged into his skin, immutable proof of the Capitol's touch. nausea curls in his gut.

( _afraid of his own reflection. remember, remember, the crawling beasts that had surrounded him at every turn, his own image forming shark-toothed shadows-_

_when did he become this monstrosity? built from the broken pieces of the fallen?_

_when was it, when?_

* * *

_when indeed—he asked and regretted as the ghosts of his minds answered._

_if_ _it was when he'd ran through swaying stacks of stone, so precarious that one wrong step or off-balance correction would lead to avalanches, and heard the thunder of rocks cover the steps of the tribute chasing him._

_if it was when he'd staggered through the choking smoke and the ash rain with only the will to survive, the breath stolen from his lungs in spikes of pain._

_if it was when he'd dug up enough explosives to blow a body to dust, enough to ensure oblivion in seconds, and his first thought was-_

_it'd be so easy to take another step-_ )

* * *

the tour is beautiful, and horrible, his first glimpse of districts he'd never seen as the surrogate murderer of all their beloved children. the rainbow of eleven's brilliant flora are dull against the stark shadows of gaunt faces, the golden waves of nine's fields marred by hunched backs and bowed heads, and the crash of four's sea only adds to the salt of glistening eyes. his own heart strains against their misery, but he cannot tell them, cannot know their language and apologize.

( _he's sorry for surviving. he's sorry it was him. he's sorry for their loss, their wounds, their screams before they died, he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry._ )

in the land of lumber, trees looming as high as the towers of his own home, he speaks fast and sharp and crumples the accursed golden cards, unable to speak his regrets. he carried out rituals of the dead, before, there in the ash of the Arena. he hopes it was enough.

( _a limp body, crumpled in a net of steel. the daggers buried in their throat shine against their skin, the twine of a token around their neck. he buries the small wooden whistle and inks his regret on the earth above.)_

he stands on stage in his sister district, electric with shared grief, and holds his cards with three fingers extended. the thunder of dams roars in his ears as he blinks out words from beyond the grave, meaningless platitudes spilling from his lips. 

( _dread closed his throat as_ _green-tinged blood spilled from their mouth, purple obscured as their face twisted in pain. he held down their convulsing form as they gripped at his arms, shrieking. (the memory of electric blue burst before him-)_ _he had to help, to ease their suffering, but what could he do? filled with strength but useless to extract poison from their lungs._

_a crossbow laid near his feet, still loaded. **oh.**_

_he reached for it, hands shaking in stress and exertion._

_he took aim, and whispered his sorrows like the secrets they had shared just minutes ago._

_he fired.)_

* * *

his own district is a bitter relief from the anguish of the other districts—the sharp glare of floodlight lamps lining the street, the scattered contrast of green weeds sprouting from the pale of cracked concrete, the sharp lines of the factories and conveyor tubes against the sky—a reminder of the memories he's now lost for the rest of his life. a wave of despair rises up in him as he shifts in his senselessly ornate Capitol outfit. ( _this is the end, this is the end, he'll never be free to see his home again-_ )

and when he steps into the square the breath is knocked out of him like a knee to his stomach—the massive screens mounted around the area broadcast a ghastly half-dead being, staggering through the hellscape of the Arena. a montage viciously cut to display the most gruesome tricks the Gamemasters had employed, looping and repeating video blown up to show every second of gory detail as the silent assassin of the Arena bleeds on screen for everyone he's ever known to see.

the lines of his district citizens, his kin have never seemed so cold before—his spot in the ranks smoothed over as if he'd never stood there in the first place. ( _I don't belong here. not anymore._ )

the thought brings the sting of tears to his eye, error sounds buzzing in his ears. he's lost so, so much. he can't lose this too. 

( _no. no, no, they won't take this from him, not his source code, his origin. he'll make them understand. he has to.)_

he pulls his mask down and his words come from him in bursts, enclosed in the arch of his hands. he gestures in diagonals and stabs the air in periods, sweeps his hands across spaces and marks indents in the air. ( _please, please, please. he's sorry, so sorry, please, forgive him. they're watching, always watching. believe me, please._ ) the crowd twitches their hands in response, and his heart lifts. he shifts to fold his thumb and little finger down, a fleeting swipe in the air before his mouth.

( _he'll pay for it, later, thirty video feeds capturing his movements at all times. he bears the bruises. it's worth it._ )

they grant him an hour to say his goodbyes and a fleet of armor-heavy Peacemakers, and he gives one last look to the rows of his work-brothers, yearmates, mentors he'd never greet again under neon-lit halls. he runs, the memory of tracing the path he took that fateful morning ago guiding his feet through the warrens of corridors. back to the only place he'd truly been safe.

the lab is unchanged, pristine, as clean as the day he'd left. he pushes away the longing, sharp as nails in his chest, and grabs a blank USB. he writes his letter in forward slashes, closed brackets and hash signs, saying everything he couldn't in the eye of a camera lens. hides it under layers of code, cyphered comments he hopes they'll care enough to read. the USB slots into the back of the third monitor and he buries the code deep inside the system, an out-of-place function, just noticeable enough to catch attention. 

( _he hopes, hopes, hopes it works. the day he uploads his first video, the comments are incomprehensible, and he collapses in relief._ )

* * *

his return is unbearably hard, feet weighed with lead as he walks into the maglev that will render him forever untethered from his home. the train is the worst the last time around, as flauntingly luxurious as ever, and he's glad for the berth the escort gives him when he presses his hands against his head.

he watches the windows until he's heartsick, enderpearl particles dancing before his eyes, and he jitters, unable to sit still. he stands, pacing, pulling at his scabs. sparks burst on the back of his eyelids, phantom pain stabbing at his head, and he stumbles as he disembarks. the offensively childish colors whirl before his eyes.

he arrives back to the scintillating emptiness of the Capitol and is shuttled through the appallingly pastel streets, festooned with neon-veined flowers and aspartame residents. the barrels of machine guns press into his back until he stands in front of a gleaming tower, with entrance replaced by a massive elevator.

he steps on.

he watches the doors close before him, the last possibility of walking free sliding away. the lift has no buttons, walls smooth as glass, and the ground begins to fall away as the elevator shifts into action without a hitch.

* * *

( _the glass tube shuts around him, cutting him off from the grounds of the Stockyard. his neck stings, a chip made in his own district embedded in his skin. the machine hisses as it rises, dull daylight slowly filling the tube as the Arena is revealed to him._

_an enormous, solid gold horn marks the middle of the circle of tributes, twisting high into the thickly clouded sky. ash-smeared trees barren of any foliage blanket the land behind him, and dark pillars of stone sway in the grey smoke that drifts through the air. the grass is a strange lavender color, only barely recognizable through the fire-like plants that bloom atop it. towering cliffs and—floating chunks of earth?—loom in the distance._

_the scene is surreal. he stares, blinking. it's completely alien, this place, so far from anything he's ever seen before. for a second, he entertains the wild thought that it's all a dream, that he'll wake up in the dormitories with only the image of gravity-defying islands left in his mind._

_the glass slides down, the tick of the timer ringing out._

_60\. 59. 58._

_he's really in the Arena. the realization slams into him, clearing the dazed fog swirling through his brain._

_45\. 44. 43._

_where to go? what would give him the best chance to live?_

_32\. 31. 30._

_he sets his hopes on a bag close to him and starts mapping a quick path through the trees._

_10\. 9. 8._

_he kicks his leg back._

_3\. 2. 1._

_zero, and the gong tolls._ )

* * *

he rides the empty elevator, silent as a tomb. the doors slide open, and the Floor is...silent. he's standing in the third Floor, ( _forty years, forty years since the scream of rebellion and the slaughter of nine-hundred twenty children forced to fight-_ ) and the air is dead and still, laying heavy in the sudden tranquility.

his body slides down onto the bare flagstones, as if gravity had tripled while he wasn't looking. sprawled against the bend of the wall, he loosens the white-knuckled grip on his shields and lets himself _feel_ , finally, racked with sobs that shake his whole being with their force.

he mourns, for all the tributes fallen, the broken bodies he'd caused, the blood forever stained onto his skin. for him, the person he'd been before he'd been reaped, unburdened by the deaths of twenty-three others who'd deserved to live. the flood of grief swallows him whole, soaking through his being, and he pours out his grief along with the rubble of his humanity.

he's hollowed out, empty space where his old self had been carved out to make way for the handles of knives. old knowledge twisted to draw blood, old inventions repurposed to death machines—a cracked and deformed shell of the person he once was. he lays his true name to rest, a grave-gift for the first person he'd killed, spoken by his last, and the exhaustion that suffuses through him feels something like peace.

and maybe, maybe he can finally rest, unspool himself from the tangled shields of defense he had constructed and sheltered in for so long. to peel the metal from his exoskeleton and reconstruct himself—not the inventor he'd killed to survive, not the persona he'd been forced to bleed for—something different, something newly created, rising from the wreckage of his past selves. 

but for now, all he feels is sharp, and raw, and far too vulnerable, still too-ready to reach for garrotes that no longer adorn his belt. but no one is here to watch, and he can let himself be without sword and bow and shield, just this once. just this once.

* * *

an indeterminable amount of time passes before he gathers his tattered self to him and stands. the Floor is empty, lifeless, and each room he comes across is void of anything substantial—a copy-pasted and rearranged version of the one before.

he sequesters himself in the farthest room to the silver doors, next to the soft rippling of a massive, wasteful pool, framed in glass and white tile. the water is clear cold and so, so blue, strikingly opposite to the bloodstained memories crammed into his mind's eye. he thinks of snowy fur and frosted eyes, and something falls back into place.

his room is void of personality, featureless in its catalog-perfect design. his bag fills nothing of the inordinately massive space, small machines dwarfed on the gleaming tables. computers without wires are bolted to the desk, functionally useless without power cores. his feet sink into the rug, thick and alien, and he shoves the mass to the side.

the bed jars the faux-idyllic image, a massive and opulent thing covered in dripping crimson-colored fabric, the effect looking uncannily like blood. rage rises, snarling, but all he does is tear the drapes down and pile it on the displaced carpet.

( _he longs for the cots folding out of the walls of his year's dorms, covered in spare parts and sometimes whole boxes of metal for someone's new project. stacks of half-open drawers underneath, filled with more redstone than clothes-everyone covered in the glittering dust, patterns of it drawn on the smooth floors._ )

homesickness seeps into his eyes and he settles for laying the overly fluffy blanket on the ground, folding it into the dimensions of a mattress. he pulls off the mocking costume still clinging to him, donning the comforting rough of his old mask. he discards the bedecked garments in the heap of the drapes, hastily digging out his own, rough clothes to ward off the clinging echos of overrefined fabric on his skin.

he enters a door in the sidewall and turns sharply at movement in the corner of his eye, heart jumping into his throat, only to find a mirror image staring back at him. pristine tiles in grey and violet and bursts of fire decorate the bathroom. fury wells up again, pushes him to drive his fist into the hateful visage of the reflection and watch it shatter. the mercury shards embed in his knuckles, drawing new blood, and shards glint on the lavender floor.

wires dangle in the void left behind by glass and he finds new purpose in the dissection of the camera's body. he runs the familiar pieces through his hands as he looks for more, jerking forward and stopping immediately. a glowing dot turns in the wall. _found you_. his fingers dig into the surface.

* * *

he returns with armfuls of dismembered parts, tucked into the corners of the closet and wrapped around his shoulders, and feels whole.

* * *

( _when he dreams he falls adrift in blood, seas of arrows piercing through faithless eyes as they claw at his face, snarling. why did you do this to me, they ask. why did you get to survive? he has no answer, and he is torn apart into glinting slivers of red lightning, fire on his lips. stones pile up around diamond-studded bodies and skin-clad skeletons reach towards his remains, pleading, accusing, destroying. wind turbines crackle with electricity, lightning weaving into a net of cutting steel. toys smash on violet turf and he opens his mouth for smoke to pour out, revoltingly sweet in the colors of the rainbow as shapeshifting beasts flutter like birds, camera-eyes watching and laughing at his futile attempts to piece himself back together and run, run, run..._ )

he bolts up in cold sweat, unable to cry out. his hands shred apart on the fault lines and he draws swirls of red into the floor, finds a knife and carves them again, ruining the polished wood. screams heighten, fade, repeat, and he has no sound loud enough to drown them out. _this is your fault,_ their despairing voices snap in his ear, and he cannot argue back.

* * *

they drag him out not a week after, to be paraded around in yet another procession through the hedonistic celebrations that flood the streets. he stands before a stage illuminated with a heatwave of floodlights and an incandescent escort, who proclaims him first of his Floor with all the suffocating fanfare the citizens demand.

" _Congratulations to 'EthosLab' — Victor of the 30th Annual Hunger Games!_ " as if it was nothing more than the greatest honor to be bestowed upon someone, the crown of Victor wrought from the demise of the most innocent of the world, the termination of children who'd never take breath again. they weld the title to him, adorned with biting aurum and compressed coal, and bears the onslaught of candy-coated residents.

sugar-high flocks of flamboyant creatures revolve around him, dancing with animal's legs and forked tongues, blissfully, rapturously, vacantly. their eyes are unfocused, hazy with ecstasy, drifting on clouds dressed to the nines in kaleidoscope smoke. they wield flare guns and pops of confetti, streamers twined around branching horns, and he waits for his screaming heart to still.

( _theirs is a halcyon world, syrup-sweet with the daze of rose-tinted summers. they see in dreams and dwell not on nonexistent consequences, void of self-awareness, content and unobservant in their extravagant half-lives. rare are those who speak with far-off accents, with rough-hewn phrases of isles lost, those whose minds have not yet misted with molasses. they don't last. the Capitol consumes all, and puppetry lays the foundation of the city suspended in treacle-thick time._ )

the second Floor come out to greet him, gesturing down with radiant grins, dressed in all the trappings of their Games. they sparkle in the artificial suns with gilt slips in their palms, celestial and damned in equal measure—trailing phosphoresce and emerald and butter-soft foil, pinpricks of ruby hidden in the folds of their regalia. he hears each as they address him and listens to none, their mouths stumbling on the spun-gold speeches of Capitol calling cards as his had just days before. he responds in kind, and his words crumble to dust on his tongue as he is pulled away on the promenades of decadence.

* * *

he peels apart the bolted screens with kitchen utensils, rends headsets to wires and tape and reconstructs, forming familiar patterns in his hands. he strains every fiber of his body to dismantle his furniture, configure the empty halls, pulls and twists and molds all the parts he can find into something that's _his_ , embedding his district into the soulless walls.

he builds a monstrocity of his own to call his home, a temple of organized chaos strung with copper-rubber vines and messily carved floors. a forest of wires and coruscating lines obscure the floor. its the inverse of picture-perfect and it's stunning for it, this haven of anarchy separate from the hellish order of the Capitol.

and the nest of greyscale scrap grows, and develops, folding out wings and alighting for the first time on clawed feet. in the dark of the wardrobe their eyes are shuttered, feathers of metal with steel wool for down, and slowly, slowly, they increase in number, guided by cratered hands.

* * *

the second Floor are allowed to meet him, briefly, Peacekeepers stationed by the silverplate elevator. and they file in wearing old clothes, sweatpants and worn shirts, worlds of difference from their shining, death-soaked personas. they are far calmer than he can force himself to be, too open after too long to shove his emotions back—nearly tame, he could call them, in slumped shoulders and cautiously crafted conversation.

but they shift, and he sees under their facades, still raw behind the shields of their own faces—still blade-honed and wide-sighted, eyes flicking to the corners of their vision. he feels the same weight resting over the spikes of himself, silencer over the bullets of words.

their movements are casual, a tensed relaxation as they slide through space with ease. when they speak they do so with cheer, smiles that reach their narrowed eyes a fraction of a tick too late. practiced flair, the swing of a motion they've done thousands of times, they navigate the minefields of collective trauma in inoffensive discussion, citadels against armored figures.

he comments on the adoration of the denizens, and they speak of it with false-joviality and sharply-edged voices, just noticeable in the flint of their pupils and the torn ends of nails.

he sees how they tense at his empty halls, their net of contact woven in unfamiliar, unique signals, and feels no fear among murderers. ( _he could never, not when his body is just as marked as theirs, not with the same whetted teeth bared under his mask._ )

* * *

(an epilogue.)

he hides his smile behind barriers of (soft, too soft) fabric, razor teeth framed in fractals of lightning. he takes pride in the whorls he wears beneath the press of his shields, a reminder that he's lived before the Floor, of stark lines and sparking dust and the noise of conveyors. the only thing they will not take away, a punishment he rendered dysfunctional in his silent welcome.

( _somehow, it's become his memorial, the path he took before his Game. his resistance. one day, he'll make sure jays with feathers slick as ink and bright as Capitol marble fly, make sure those who were consumed by the Arena are not lost forever, that their memorials will one day stand where their skyscrapers had towered. one day._ )

his eye is redder than the stains he sees on his hands, glittering sand and clotting liquid both. he cannot scream, voice cut down by the snap of blue-white electricity. he knows this, accepts this, burns his luck into his mind.

( _once upon a time he thought of clawing the red out, the way it had gone before; one more act of defiance against the Capitol. he knows, now, not to think such things. they'd only replace it, more monstrous than ever._ )

and he greets each new floormate, careful as the Victors had before for him, standing still in their waves of panic. he sees his grieving brothers-in-survival shatter and reform, leaving broken bits of themselves crumpled on the floor, scattered like so many shards of glass. he sees them stand back up, pieces fused back together in something different. 

the first, he can only watch as they run through unfamiliar rituals, folding away from him even as they broke his solitude in so many loud words and the _crack_ of axes. the second, brash and strong and even louder, brilliant as the sky as they cleaved their way through the hesitation of interaction. the third, the one who'd found his puzzle, wearing feathered token with an eye that matched his and wrath to spare, prosthetics welded to their spine.

they forge their way through rage, through sorrow, through acceptance, in origami configurations as they are born anew. they build their own bases to add to his, fortified strongholds to find safety in enemy territory. he holds his palms out in supplication, in the horror of understanding, and one by one they take it.

( _their hands match his in the way only they can_ ).

**Author's Note:**

> Etho's game took several weeks. This is why it warranted such a drastic final challenge, and dramatic gimmick after that; ten tributes entered the catacombs, which is almost half of all the tributes(24 tributes total).
> 
> (headcanon) In the older games, they would not erase the scars Victors gained in the Arena-they would heal them up to perfection, but the scars would be permanent. Anything lost, eyes, limbs or else, would be replaced with prosthetics. Some people didn't require makeup at all because they had been so heavily warped. ((for if it clashes with anyone's work) They eventually stopped, as there was an increasing amount of the more gruesome tributes, and it wasn't appealing to Capitol citizens.)
> 
> By "true names" I mean that (another headcanon) choosing the Arena name is usually done as soon as possible, to give time to form a brand and persona. The Arena name is then used exclusively up to and including the Arena(in nightly death messages they will even put the true name after the Arena name). As tributes, telling someone your true name is then very important because it means emotional connection. ((for if it clashes with anyone's work) This probably also fell out of favor as more people using their real names as Arena names became much more common). Also, (very much noncanon) Arena names in some occasions could be chosen after the Games, usually by the Capitol (as the Victor presumably refused to in the first place). This would explain names that relate heavily to their most famous kill(ie. Slimecicle and slime acid, toxxxicsupport and toxic gas).
> 
> The marks he covers up are Litchenburg scars, which are sometimes left on lightning strike survivors. They're normally not permanent in real life, but the Capitol ensures they will be—its supposed to be a reminder not to cross them again/show everyone else not to cross their word. This is also why they are not erased by the stylists.
> 
> Etho's parents were very talented, and secret rebels, and they were found out and killed after he was born. That's why he is monitored so heavily, and why the Peacekeepers reacted so violently to him looking for information on his parents. They didn't outright kill him because his skill at redstone(and various other things) was too valuable and helped the Capitol too much to just dispose of. and Etho found and carried on their work anyway(the old archives are not a well-managed place).
> 
> The person he gave feathers to was Doc; the district five tribute was Nebris(considering the Death Games thing, I thought it was fitting). The coal-made-diamonds announcer was meant to be DanTDM(sorry, I'm not sure of the canon announcer for the early games). I didn't mention his age, but the nHo is meant to all be the same age when they meet at floor 3, so he is 15, BDubs will be reaped at 16, Beef at 17, and Doc at 18.
> 
> I avoided naming most of the characters just in case, so feel free to imagine who the stylists/other tributes are! Also, I really liked the idea of RT being a Gamemaker from everythingFangirl (and CallMeKevin too? maybe DF as well—hell, Bodil40 was famous for being a troll)—it doesn't really match up with the timeline, but its really cool anyway.
> 
> monstrocity is not a typo


End file.
